


Such is the Price of Honor

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-14
Updated: 2010-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-13 04:56:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the face of tragedy, it falls to Aemon to make a choice; once as a child, once as an old man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Such is the Price of Honor

When word first arrives of the scope and severity of the disease, Aemon Targaryen finds himself confined with his father and a handful of servants. The palace of Summerhall remains in near total seclusion for the duration of the quickly named Great Spring Sickness. Influenced by their Dornish neighbors, who revived long abandoned isolationist strategies, Maekar goes so far as to order that various sections of the stronghold are separated from one another. The days pass in a madness inducing haze of anxiety and perpetual tedium, while the household hopes to wait the disaster out.

Every evening word comes, whispered at their door, as to the fate of Aemon’s younger sisters (elsewhere in the castle); Rhae is ill but, miraculously, expected to recover. Daella is healthy, but frightened.

One horrible day brings news of the death of the king and his most immediate heirs. Daeron II, who was well one hour, and on his funeral pyre the next. Valarr who stubbornly lasted three days; two more than most victims of the plague. Matarys, who died peacefully, praying as he left the world.

Prince Maekar grinds his teeth, hears the news, and Aemon can almost _hear_ the sound of losses and fears adding up in his father’s head.

“Who rules the kingdom now?” Aemon asks, contemplating a Westeros with a different king. Daeron II Targaryen had not been a young man, and word was that the recent loss of his first born son had aged him further. Still, he had ruled for ages, certainly for the entirety of Aemon’s life, and this change is all but incomprehensible.

“There is no news of that, yet,” Maekar says and they don’t speak again for some time.

Aemon is clamoring for further information; he has heard that Oldtown is badly afflicted, and his stomach twists with fear for his friends who remain at the Citadel. He wants to beat down the door in front of him and go to his younger sister, if she truly is in danger of dying. He wishes letters would arrive from Dorne, letters telling him that Egg is still alive and safe. He contemplates all these things, but eventually concedes their impossibility.

“I’m sorry that this hasn’t been much of a respite from your studies.”

“Ah, well.” Aemon, capable enough with words as a rule, struggles for the proper response. He didn’t know his father was capable of making a joke, but he supposes it’s a time for the world to turn upside down. “The gods must have really wanted to keep me from the examination for my next chain link,” he says, dryly.

“Which one?”

“Iron.”

“And that is for…?”

“Warcraft, sir.”

“I see.” Aemon is certain he is not imagining the faint surprise in his father’s voice, but he is not sure why it would be there. He will never be a warrior, no, but even Aemon is capable of learning strategy.

When Maekar speaks again, he abruptly shifts topics. “So, tell me, Aemon, have the maesters and I chosen correctly by closing off Summerhall?”

“Yes. Why are you asking?”

“Why do you think? I dislike sitting here, doing nothing, and waiting.”

“…And you worry for others,” Aemon suggests carefully, thinking once more about the unknown fates of his siblings.

“Yes, I do.” It is quite the concession from Maekar, who has always seemed to disdain fear in others and, especially, in himself.

Aemon feels an unexpected onslaught of compassion for his father, who has always been a man of action. “Rhae sounds like she’s through the worst of the disease and Aegon is in Dorne.”

Maekar’s eyes narrow. “That’s not what I asked you. Have I made the right decision?”

Suddenly, he realizes that this his father’s way of showing he values Aemon’s opinion. That they are some questions for which a young master-to-be is more helpful than any adult knight. That the older Maekar gets, the more willing he seems to be to give up on absolutes.

“In my opinion…” He hesitates, his father waits. “In my opinion yes.” His chain, with its single link weighs heavy around Aemon’s neck. “Going anywhere is a danger now, and here you can do the most good. Summerhall needs to look to a leader, sir. That should be you.”

Maekar watches him for what feels like a long time, but is probably only a few seconds. “I suppose that has some truth to it.”

It might be the closest thing to a ‘thank you,’ Aemon will ever hear from his father and, strangely, that makes him all the more certain of his advice.

 *****

At the sound of Mormont’s footsteps, Maester Aemon can sense the nature of the news that is mercilessly heading his way. Jeor usually walks with assured confidence (one really can hear him from floors away sometimes), but on this day his gait is hunching and reluctant. He has a burden he does not wish to share, but share it he will.

Aemon’s fear is compounded further when the Lord Commander dismisses Aemon’s attending stewards. “I don’t think you’d want them here for this letter,” Mormont grumbles when they are gone. Paper rustles and then his Lord Commander begins to read.

And Aemon can picture it all, as the terse report washes over him. The blood, the carnage, the loved ones of the dead crying for revenge. The history book in a century that will delineate the family trees of the long-gone Targaryen dynasty. This was when Westeros was ruled by a family of old Valyria. They were overthrown in 283 AL.

In nearly one fell swoop, the Seven had seen fit to destroy nearly all that remained of Aemon’s younger brother.

Aemon can sense Jeor Mormont watching him, his gaze sympathetic in a thoroughly Northern way.

“Who rules the kingdom now?” Aemon asks, and wonders as he says it. The words sound so very familiar.

“Robert Baratheon,” the Lord Commander says somberly. “He is our king now.”

“I see.”

“What will you do now?”

Every instinct tells him to leave and right this impossible wrong. “Stay here on the Wall.”

“I expected no less.”


End file.
